Mean What You Say
by gythia
Summary: Early in Aragorn's reign, Aragorn does not quite have being a king figured out yet, and Pippin pays the price.
1. Chapter 1

Mean What You Say

This is a fanfic. Characters: ain't mine. World: ain't mine neither. Mistakes: mine, all mine. A note about the timeline: this story takes place before my other fanfic, Nine For Mortal Men, after Aragorn's crowning but before his wedding.

Warnings: nc17 slash torture incest

Part One

"You." The moment Pippin entered the throne room, Aragorn fixed him with a glare. A glare with a glint of amusement in the eye, true, but that only made him look uncannily like Denethor. Pippin took an involuntary step back, as if preparing to bolt back out the door, causing Merry to stumble into him trying to come into the room.

The courtiers were all staring at him. Men of Gondor, various foreigners, and Gandalf, all clustered around Aragorn as he stood in a spot of sunlight on this chill spring morning. "Uh—" said Pippin intelligently. "What? My lord."

"You know perfectly well what," Aragorn said. That was worse—now he sounded like Pippin's mother. "You have earned yourself a good thrashing."

For one heart stopping moment, Pippin wondered if he had imagined hearing that, conjuring up the phrase because he had been thinking of getting caught doing something naughty by his older relatives. Pippin stared, unsure, but beside him he heard Merry gasp, and Gandalf, standing beside Aragorn, turned to whisper to him with a very concerned expression on his face. So maybe he had heard right.

Some of the courtiers murmured to each other. Aragorn said something quietly to Gandalf, then turned back to Pippin. "What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

That was odd—that was hobbit talk, no one outside the Shire ever sent engraved invitations. Perhaps Aragorn was attempting to use Breeland phrases when talking to hobbits, for whatever strange reason. But Pippin did not give it any more thought. What Aragorn had said finally sunk in. That was an order. Aragorn had actually ordered him to go have himself thrashed. What in Middle Earth? No time to wonder why now. Pippin grabbed Merry by the arm and pulled him back out the door with him.

"Did you just hear what I just heard?" Pippin asked him, walking quickly across the courtyard. "Did he just tell me to go get whipped?"

"I think he did, Pippin. But surely he didn't mean it. Strider doesn't do things like that."

"Strider doesn't, Aragorn doesn't either, but maybe King Elessar does. I barely know him."

"That's crazy talk, Pippin."

"And anyway, if Strider the Ranger said something like that, nobody would do it even if they thought he was serious. But the King's word is law."

"He's still our Strider."

"Is he? It's no nevermind, Merry, he is the King, and he gave me an order."

"What are you going to do?"

"The question is, what are YOU going to do? It's showtime, Merry."

"No! No way, Pippin. That's over forever. That's been over since you and I grew old enough to realize what my father's problem was, and threaten to expose him."

"Is that what you think? I thought he just lost interest in us when we got to looking too much like grown up hobbits."

"Alright! It doesn't matter. I'm not participating in that again."

Pippin stopped walking. "But Merry— if you don't do it, I'll have to go to the Citadel. I'm not asking Frodo to do it, he has enough on his mind, and Sam wouldn't, he knows his place too well. Merry, I've seen a Gondorian flogging. I had to watch once, during Denethor's reign. They do it in public!"

"What?"

"Everybody watches. There's a special room in the Citadel, they have this pole they call a Mast that they tie people to. A hundred people can fit in there, common soldiers, total strangers, everybody. The humiliation is half of the point, for the Gondorians. I'd die of shame!"

"They—" Merry blinked and looked away, digesting this. "But surely Aragorn didn't mean it!"

"If Denethor had said that, he would have meant it," Pippin said sourly. "I can't just shrug it off, Merry, we're not gathered around a campfire in the middle of nowhere, and that's not Strider. Even if he was talking like Strider, a bit."

"There you go!" said Merry. "You're right, he did talk like they do in Bree, where we met Strider. That's a clue, then. He was joking."

Pippin shook his head. "But Merry—if he meant it, and I don't do it… disobeying a direct order is a capital offence in Minas Tirith."

Merry's jaw dropped. "He wouldn't kill you, you ninny! Whatever name he goes by. Where do you get these strange notions?"

"I lived here, Merry. Remember? I know how things work here. It's been barely a few weeks since he ascended to the throne, he can't have had time to change the laws yet. Minas Tirith still runs on Denethor's rules."

Merry let out a breath, and nodded. "If you really think it will protect you from something worse, I will, I will, put on the show with you. If you can call it that, when we'll be alone."

"Good. Let's go find some privacy, then. The lower levels, an abandoned house perhaps. We can surely pick up what we need in some of the uncleared areas. They've carted off all the bodies, but I know they haven't gotten around to cleaning out all the dropped detritus of the battle."

"Wait—you're not talking about…" But Merry sighed and fell silent. Pippin started walking again, and Merry walked beside him.

"What did I do, Merry? He said I knew what I'd done, but I really don't. I didn't leave my post. I wasn't drunk on duty. Not this week, anyway."

Merry snorted.

"Pipeweed doesn't count," Pippin said. "And anyway, I wasn't on duty then."

"I don't know, Pippin."

"I've barely spoken to anybody since yesterday's court, except other hobbits, and that foreign fellow last evening, wait, that can't be it, can it? No, no, he seemed to go away satisfied."

"What foreign fellow?"

"Oh, some tall fellow with dark skin, in bright clothes, asked where he could refresh himself in this city. I directed him to that new inn that just opened a few days ago."

"Hmm. That sounds fine," said Merry. "But you never know about Big Folk."

"True," said Pippin. "Let's try to find one of the places that still has a working water pump, to clean up afterwards."

"To clean up? Who cares about an abandoned house?"

"To clean up us. There's no point in doing this at all if the marks fade before anybody sees them. It's still the show, only at one remove. Your father used to say he wanted to see red marks on the skin with every blow, to be sure we weren't faking."

"I remember," Merry growled. "My father can go suck eggs. When we get back to the Shire, I'm going to stand up to him. Like you stood up to Denethor at the last."

"Good. It's about time. But when we get back to the Shire, Merry, somehow I don't think we're really going to be getting into much mischief anymore. Tell me, does stealing crops out of a field sound at all fun right now?"

"Well, no. Actually. When we get home I think I'd like to just put my feet up by the hearth and not do much of anything for a while."

"We grew up, Merry," Pippin said.

"I guess we did."

"Anyway, my point is: I'm fairly sure Aragorn's going to want to see, at some point. But I'm not sure how long it's going to be. Things pile up, unexpected events might delay him. The evidence might have to stay visible for days. Into next week, even."

"But Pippin, even really nasty welts go away in a few days. To make it stay around that long, I'd have to make it cut. I'd have to beat you bloody."

"I know."

"I don't think I can do it, Pippin."

"You've done it before."

"With my father hanging over my shoulder, threatening to make a girl of you if I didn't get it right the first time!"

"Is that the way you recall it? I thought he said he was going to use me like a girl. Still, you did it. You can still see the scars, did you know that? I can't see my own back side, but other people have asked me about them, recently."

"Gah!" Merry made a hair-tearing-out gesture. "I can't! Not because I'm afraid to hurt you. Of course I don't want to, but like you said, I've done it before. No, Pippin, let me finish. What I'm afraid of is to turn into my father."

"Oh. I see. You're afraid you'll enjoy it."

"I'm afraid to find out what I enjoy, exactly. Pippin—I've told myself many times that I like having a certain odd kind of power over my father. The power to please him with the show, or to deliberately fail to please him and throw him into a rage—yes I actually did that once, I'm sorry. And the power to frighten him, even, if I don't use the trick too often. Those few times that you hyperventilated from the pain and stopped breathing. I knew it was just your body catching up with the air supply. I knew you weren't in any danger. But he thought I'd killed you, and it completely turned him off. He didn't bother us for months after the first time, and at least a couple weeks after the other times. I liked that, Pippin. I liked it a lot. But I'm afraid I might have liked having that power over you, too. If I do the show alone, with no audience, and I still feel that way… then I'm just as bad as he is. Just in a different way."

"No, you're not, Merry. You can't help the way you were raised. You were trained to feel that way. Might as well blame Sam for saying Mr. all the time."

Merry smiled in spite of himself. "That's pretty harmless by comparison, don't you think, Pippin?"

"Of course it is. But haven't you ever wondered why I kept coming back? All I would have had to do to be free of your father is never visit Buckland."

"I know. We tried to stay away from him as much as possible. Staying with your family, camping in barns when they thought we were at my home, visiting Bag End and other haunts of distant relations, anything we could think of. But you're right, of course, you could have just stopped coming around to visit me. I'm glad you didn't. I'm glad you didn't leave me to face him all alone. Thank you for that, Pippin." Merry patted his shoulder.

"You are entirely welcome, cousin. You're the big brother I never had. I couldn't just leave you. But Merry. I know, for the show, we had to pretend that I was afraid and unwilling. But I wasn't. Well, afraid sometimes, but…" Pippin trailed off.

They came to a row of crumbling old homes with weed-choked front yards, fallen masonry everywhere, and the sooty smudges of the recent war. They went into one house and started scrounging.

"Do you know, Pippin, I think this is the first time we've ever actually talked about the show."

"I think you're right. Except for planning a few tricks here and there. Merry." Pippin stopped walking through the deserted house and turned to look at him intently. "I have to know. You seem to remember things a little differently that me. That thing with the butter."

Merry went red to the ears. "I was trying to keep from hurting you too much," he said quietly.

"I know that," Pippin said. "What I want to know is, how did you know to plan to have it? Did he tell you in advance what he was planning to make you do?"

"Yes. He always did that, Pippin. When you weren't there, he just talked about the show instead of doing anything. He never touched me himself. Never, after the show started, anyway. Before you came along was another matter. You were, I guess about eight when the show started, which would make me sixteen. The previous, oh, ten years or so were pure horror. But after that, when he wanted to be, to be cruel to me, he would tell me what the next thing in the show was going to be."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What good would it have done to scare you too? I didn't want to think about it. I put all my energy into avoiding it, and him. And to figuring out ways to get out of any trouble we got into, or at least convincing anybody who got mad at us to punish us themselves, or let me do it in front of them, anything but bring us to my father."

"I know. I remember. Hey look, found something." Pippin picked up a leather cat-o'-nine-tails off the dusty floor, where it had fallen next to a crude iron helmet.

"Pippin—that's an orc whip! I can't use that on you!"

Pippin said, "See anything better? It's filthy, but we can clean it first. The orc variety is all we're likely to find, you know. The Men of Gondor don't carry whips into battle. This is exactly what I hoped to find in here. Come on, let's find a cistern."

"Pip, I can't. Really, I can't. I remember the Uruk-hai too well."

"But it's perfect, Merry. We don't have to embarrass ourselves by asking anybody for one. Just find it lying around." Pippin walked out the back door, and Merry followed. They were in the back gardens of the row, overgrown in spots, bare and dry in others. There was still a clothesline hanging between the house and the block wall. "Ah, look." There was a metal bucket by the well. Pippin tossed the whip on the ground and drew up some water, then washed the whip. "Utterly perfect," Pippin said. "See? There are metal plates braided in. You won't even have to hit me very hard to make it bite deep."

Merry went pale. "I want to wake up now."

Pippin handed him the wet cat-o'-nine-tails. "Showtime."


	2. Chapter 2

Mean What You Say Part Two

In the throne room, Gandalf leaned close to Aragorn to whisper to him after that startling pronouncement. "That could be interpreted as a command, King Elessar."

"I hope the Haradric Ambassador thinks so," Aragorn whispered back. "But even if Pippin misses the embedded clue, Merry won't; he's quite a bright little fellow. Surely speaking Breeland dialect is like waving a flag saying it's Strider talking, not the King, for those who met me first in Bree."

"An obscure point, Lord."

"Sufficiently obscure so that the Haradrim will not understand, I trust. It will be fine, Gandalf, do not worry. I have already taken precautions against just such an event. Ah, here comes the Ambassador. We'll continue this later."

Aragorn turned to the tall Man from Harad, who was wearing bright green and orange robes, heavy with gold embroidery, and a large gold chain of office. "Ambassador Oortowe. I hope that the punishment of the one who offended you repairs the insult."

"It will," said the Ambassador, "when the proof arrives. My reception is this city gives evidence of the reception of the messages and offers I bring. I do not find that vaguely worded order to that impertinent boy sufficient redress. I would have expected him to be sent off under guard."

"I see," said Aragorn. "Then we shall wait until he returns. So that our subsequent discussion is not poisoned by this unresolved issue, let us put off the opening of the trade negotiations until tomorrow. In the meantime, please avail yourself of whatever luxuries my servants can provide you. Walk where you will in Minas Tirith, save those areas denied to all its people; you will know them by the standing guard. Or remain and observe the court, as you wish. Come and go as you like, and be free within the walls of the city."

"I thank you for this courtesy," replied the Ambassador. "Perhaps I shall revise my first impression."

"I do so hope, Ambassador."

As the Haradric man moved off through the crowd, Gandalf stepped close again. "What precautions have you taken, Aragorn?"

"I have ordered the Mast Room in the Citadel shut and locked, all its equipment destroyed, and its attendants reassigned to other duties. I have substituted—"

At that point, a disturbance between two courtiers demanded the King's attention. There were longstanding rivalries and enmities in Gondor, and Aragorn found himself playing peacemaker far too often for his liking. It was nearly half an hour before he returned to Gandalf.

"As I was saying, I have substituted a list of less violent punishments. I cribbed the list from the rules of the Rangers, in fact, taking out what did not apply, and filling gaps by copying from Rivendell and Lorien, where there are walls and borders to defend."

"Mm. The wisdom of such matters among your Men I leave to you. However, I do not think you quite understand the ways of hobbits. Pippin will not go to the Citadel. Not unless he is dragged there in chains. Hobbits have a taboo against public punishments, and an even greater taboo against those of lower station striking or even witnessing the beating of one of higher station. Hobbits expect to be punished by their adult relatives, or by their betters, or the occasional rural landowner, if one is caught trespassing; I have no doubt Pippin is well acquainted with the latter situation. None of which applies to a sergeant of the Citadel. As the only son of the Thain, Pippin considered himself of approximately equal rank with Boromir, before his death. And with Faramir, now."

"Well then, there is nothing to fear. Except to worry over how I am going to counterfeit proof for the Ambassador."

"You misunderstand me. Pippin left with Merry. Merry is one of Pippin's adult relatives."

Aragorn's eyes widened. "Oh no. I must track them down before anything happens."

"It is too late, Aragorn. They could be anywhere in the city by now, and very likely 'anything' is already happening." Gandalf sighed. "I have been advising you for weeks now, that as the King you must learn to say only what you mean, when you give a command, or say anything that could remotely be taken as a command. The people of Minas Tirith are used to the blind obedience that Denethor demanded. And so is Pippin. He served him in the darkest hours of his madness. There are things that happened, the details of which Pippin will still not reveal even to me. And even if that were not so, it would not be wise to train your people to second-guess your orders. That would result in a much larger problem than one sore hobbit."

Aragorn looked away for a moment, thinking, his eyes resting on a marble statue, of some distant relation perhaps. "Then I must simply hope that Merry and Pippin's friendship will prevent any harm from coming to Pippin."

"Mm. For my part, I will trust in the endurance of hobbits. Their kind can withstand things that would kill you, Aragorn, and walk away laughing."

Then one of the men of the city approached Aragorn to talk up some favored project. Reluctantly, Aragorn turned his thoughts to the business of governance.

End of Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

Mean What You Say Part 3

Merry bit his lip and took the cat-o'-nine-tails gingerly. "Um, out here? I think we might be visible from the city walls above us."

"In there then," said Pippin, and went back into the house. "It's so cold this morning," Pippin remarked. "I think I'm going to pick that spot of floor over there." There was one place where the ceiling had fallen in, and there was a patch of sunlight warming the dusty stone floor. He went to stand in the sun, and looked up at the roof. At this early hour, the sun was coming in at an angle, and there was still ceiling above the sunny spot. "This will do." He peeled off his black livery, folded it carefully, and set it down some distance from the sunny patch. Then he returned and stood in the light.

Merry just looked at him for a while, lost in aesthetic appreciation of his cousin's body. The journey in the wilderness had not only made him taller and leaner, but had filled his skin with wiry, rippling muscles. Merry felt a faint and shameful stirring.

"Say the phrase, Merry."

Merry closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his courage. When he opened them again, his expression was closed. "Lay down and stay down." It came out low and menacing, just as he had said it all those times before.

Pippin lay on his belly, arms above his head, face turned to one side. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for pain. The taught muscles in his back screamed of tension.

Merry just stood there. Pippin was right, he could still see the white lines of old scars on Pippin's back and buttocks. And what fine white globes those pretty buttocks were. He stood there so long that Pippin opened his eyes and looked up at him. Well, the one eye that Merry could see.

"How long are you going to make me lay here anticipating?" Pippin asked accusingly.

"Sorry," Merry said quietly. "It's just—the last time I did this, I was younger than you are now."

"Get on with it already."

Merry stepped close, raised the whip and brought it down. It smacked against Pippin's perfect back, leaving a few tiny scratches.

"Harder, Merry," Pippin whispered.

Abruptly, Merry started crying. He remembered the first time Pippin had whispered that to him, in the middle of the show. Merry had been trying to simulate a beating, making fast movements that cracked just an inch above the skin, but his father had not been fooled. The elder Brandybuck had been glowering and jittering, going increasingly edgy as the faux-thrashing went on. And Pippin had been so frightened at his Uncle Saradoc's growing agitation that he had whispered, "Harder, Merry." He had urged Merry to give him a real beating, so that Merry's father wouldn't take over and do unspeakable things to little Pippin. As had happened too often. Pippin had been about ten. And Merry had beaten him hard.

Pippin had either been too timid, too weak, or perhaps simply too much of a natural submissive to give Merry a return beating bad enough to satisfy Merry's father. And when that happened, Merry's father got angry—at Pippin. Merry's father went much farther than simply smacking him around, though. When he touched him, even to hit him, he got excited. That was, Merry figured, probably the reason he had started making the boys beat each other in the first place, because he was afraid of what he might end up doing to his son if he tried to whip him himself. And then Merry's father used Pippin hideously. So Merry started foolproofing the show, cutting off whatever Merry's father might do by doing a milder version of it himself first. That was when the show starting turning from simply Uncle Saradoc making the two naughty boys thrash each other, to Merry beating Pippin and then violating him. And Merry, gradually, over years of time, had learned to get hard when he had a strap in his hand. He was terribly afraid that he was going to do it again right now. Now, when nobody was making him. Now, when it wasn't part of the plan. Now, when if it happened, it would be because he was like that. Because he was a bad person. Because even after ten years, he couldn't shake what his father had made of him.

Already he could feel a bit of anticipatory excitement. A feeling of heat. It would not take much to bring him completely ready, if he chose to use his free hand. He did not.

Merry sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Through the blur of tears, he raised the cat-o'-nine-tails high and crashed it down with full force, five times in rapid succession. He moved down the body with each blow, from the upper back, to middle, to lower, to buttocks, and back up to the middle of the back, new lines crossing the first stripes. He felt spray hit his face, stopped, wiped his eyes and looked at Pippin.

The whip had broken the skin in five times nine sinuous lines. Pippin's back and ass ran with blood. Merry looked at Pippin's face. Eyes shut tight but leaking tears, mouth a horrible grimace. Not breathing. Pippin was holding his breath to keep from screaming. Pippin's hands were balled into fists, every sinew rigid with pain.

Merry felt sick. And then he felt relieved. Because this wasn't sexy at all.

Any hint of pleasant steel that had been in his loins before he looked at Pippin's face was gone now, completely squashed. He did not like the hurting, and he did not like the power. He had turned out alright after all, despite everything.

Then he felt ashamed at feeling relief, since Pippin was so obviously hurt. Merry's heart turned over inside him. Or was that his gut? Raggedly, he said, "Get up. I'm done."

Pippin let out his breath, an odd sound halfway between a scream and a whimper. He pushed himself off the stone floor, got his knees under him, and paused a moment panting. He swayed as he stood up, slightly dizzy.

Merry let the whip fall and instinctively moved to steady Pippin. Pippin flinched at his touch. "I'm so sorry Pippin," Merry sobbed. Merry lowered his head and somehow it came to rest on Pippin's shoulder.

"Hey, Merry," Pippin said softly. "I asked for this, remember?"

"I meant for everything. For all the other times. For all the times I should have protected you better. Why didn't we just go to YOUR father, for heaven's sake? He could have protected us both." Merry wanted to encircle Pippin, but knew it would hurt him to touch his back, so he held onto his upper arms instead.

"Sh, sh, we were children, we didn't know any better. Things will be different now."

"Yes, yes they will. No more show. Ever. There will never be another no that means yes between us again. I never want to have to guess where your limits are again, Pippin, from now on I want you to tell me."

"Sure." There was a long pause. "Merry, I really hate to point this out, because I can see you feel bad enough already, but I'm pretty sure I feel worse right now. I'd like to clean up out at the well. Please let go of me."

"Oh. Sorry." Merry moved back.

Just as the two of them moved away from the sunny spot, a square stone fell out of the ceiling and hit just where Pippin had been lying. Merry and Pippin gave each other a matched pair of wide-eyed looks.

Pippin walked unsteadily out of the abandoned building and came to the cistern. Merry drew up a bucket of water and dumped it over Pippin's back. Pippin gasped. "Lawks, that's cold! Oh help Merry I think I'm going to faint!"

Merry caught one of Pippin's outflung arms and pulled him back to his feet. "Over here, Pippin." Merry ducked under Pippin's arm and half carried him away from the pink mud in front of the well. "Still dizzy?"

"Yes," Pippin whispered. "I think I should go back in and lie down."

"It's not safe in there, remember the falling masonry?"

"Well, I need to lie down somewhere."

"And dry off, I know, and let your wounds scab over before you put your clothes back on, so the cloth won't stick to them. Here. It's too cold in those buildings, out of the sun, when you're all wet." Merry lay down in the dirt and pulled Pippin down on top of him. "Lay on me, Pip. I'm soft."

"You're all ribs," Pippin said, but he gave Merry a weak grin, and then rested his head over Merry's heart.

Merry sighed contentedly. "This is what my father stole from us. From me. For all those years."

"What?" asked Pippin.

"The ability to hold you naked in my arms and feel nothing but love. The cousinly kind. I was so afraid of what I might feel, trying to do the show again after all these years. But now I know. I'm not like him after all."

"All is well, then," said Pippin. "But I'm afraid I'm not quite as sweet and innocent as you seem to be."

"What?"

"I'm kind of having fun, lying naked in your arms. Except for the pain and the being wet and the getting your clothes underneath me all wet and the fly that keeps trying to land on my foot, that is."

Merry smiled and tousled Pippin's hair. "Well, the sun with cure the being wet part soon enough."

"Yes, she is a most excellent friend. And so are you, Merry."

"I love you, Pippin." Merry planted a kiss on the top of Pippin's head. Pippin settled, emitted a low whimper, and fell asleep.

End of Part Three


	4. Chapter 4

Mean What You Say part 4

Pippin slipped timidly into the throne room. This time the main press of courtiers was concentrated at the other end of the room, near the high throne, so nobody noticed the front door opening. Pippin sighed in relief and crossed the long stone hall.

Aragorn was seated on the throne, high above the room, and looked uncomfortable. He saw Pippin come to the edge of the crowd, and gave Pippin a shallow acknowledging nod. Pippin bowed in return. The courtiers did not seem to notice.

Some beribboned popinjay held forth to the assembled court on the subject of barrel taxes. When he was done speaking, one of Gondor's few women courtiers harangued on the same subject from the center of a mound of stiff fabrics, reminding Pippin a little of a daisy: one bright face in the middle of a circle of petal-flounces.

"Hold," said Aragorn. "This discussion is in recess. I shall give consideration to this issue." He climbed off the throne, waited for those who pounced on him for various entreaties to clear off, and made his way through the throng to Pippin. "A private word, Pippin," Aragorn said softly, and pointed to the door at the back of the room. That had once been Denethor's quarters, and now it was Aragorn's.

Pippin followed him in. As in Denethor's time, the front area held a desk and chair, with a more casual seating area off to one side in front of the fireplace, and behind that was the bedroom, with doors onto a closet and a privy. It was all the same furniture, in fact. Redecorating had not been high on Aragorn's list of priorities, or perhaps he expected Arwen to do that, whenever—if ever—she finally arrived.

Aragorn regarded Pippin uncertainly for a moment, as if unsure what to say. "Did you actually… go and have yourself beaten?"

"Of course."

"Of course?"

"Aragorn, do you know what happened to the last person who disobeyed one of Denethor's orders? He didn't quite go so far as to have the fellow's head displayed on a pike in the Court of the Fountain, though he considered it; ultimately he rejected the idea because he said it would spoil the symmetry, whatever that means. But he did strike off the man's head. Personally, with that sword he always wore around under his robes. So it hardly made a difference to the man's wife and children in the end."

"I'm not Denethor."

"You are the ruler of Gondor," Pippin said. "Please don't tell me you didn't mean it."

Aragorn nodded. "It will present one less difficulty for me if I don't have to figure out how to create imitation marks on you, to show to the Haradric Ambassador."

"The who what?"

"You really have no idea the stir you caused, do you?"

"Ooh, there was a stir? And I missed it?"

Aragorn shook his head. "Oortowe thought that being directed to a public house was a deliberate insult from my government to his. That it was the start of a particular negotiating style in which both parties try to be as intractable as possible, so he responded in kind by demanding you be punished before he would even discuss the seating arrangements for the trade delegation. There is no way to salvage the first impression now, but there are two different ways for me to score points in that style. One is to refuse to punish you at all—that would essentially halt negotiations entirely until a third party could be brought in to mediate, or until a new Ambassador was assigned. Because it would be a tacit admission that you acted under orders. Not my first choice. The other is to go completely over the top. If you had not actually done anything, I was planning to try to counterfeit something really horrible looking, to impress Oortowe. That would send the message that he can expect an enthusiastic response to any proposal of his to move forward, and that we truly desire his alliance. The median position is to do the bare minimum; it moves the negotiation process forward, but does not gain us any respect."

Pippin just blinked at him. That all went way over his head.

Aragorn sighed. "So, let me see what you've had done to yourself. Remove your shirt."

Pippin peeled out of the skin-tight uniform. After a momentary pause, he took off the pants, too. Despite taking a few hours that morning to let the wounds close before dressing again, some of them had stuck to the cloth, and Pippin squeaked as those scabs broke open again. Blood trickled down Pippin's back and buttocks.

Aragorn walked around behind Pippin, and gasped. He had expected to see welts and bruises, or perhaps reddened skin, not bleeding gashes. "By the Valar! How are you up walking around?"

"Looks bad, does it?" Pippin asked.

"It looks," said Aragorn, "like you've been given fifty lashes. Which is a death sentence. For Men, that is."

"Oh. Well, I wasn't. That was five, not fifty."

Aragorn walked a few paces away and sat down on top of some papers on his desk. "There are far more than five wheals there."

"Five times nine," Pippin said. "From the cat-o'-nine-tails. We found it in the battle detritus in the lower levels."

"Dropped by a dead orc?" Aragorn asked.

"I'd imagine so, yes."

"Those orc whips are meant to be used against armor, not skin," said Aragorn. "They are studded with metal scales so they'll make a frightful din when they hit the metal-armored back of an orc soldier. I've seen orcs on the battlefield literally be whipped along toward the enemy by their sergeants."

"Yes, I've seen it too," Pippin said. "Though the Uruk-hai used single thongs." Pippin shuddered at the memory. The really terrifying thing about his captivity had not been the orcs themselves, though; it had been the uncertain future, and the knowledge that an evil wizard was waiting for him. Someone just as powerful as Gandalf.

"You and Merry have endured much," Aragorn said quietly. "I am surprised either of you could even look at an orc-whip again."

"Do you read minds, Aragorn? Like Galadriel does?"

"I only wish I did. It would make dealing with all these foreign envoys, not to mention the Gondorians, so much less tiresome. Well. Over the top it is, then. We are going to show you off to the Haradrim, and then I shall treat your wounds. Wait here. And, try not to look so, well, perky. If that had been done to one of my race, especially the young boy you appear to be, you ought to be half dead."

"Sure. No problem. On with the show." Pippin had learned very early to wail convincingly under the lash, even when Merry was faking. It had never fooled Uncle Saradoc, but it had fooled a few irate shopkeepers when Pippin was caught stealing. Then Merry had pretended to be outraged at Pippin and offered to punish him himself instead of involving the parents, even though Merry was generally the instigator, planner, and lookout for whatever mischief they got into. Pippin was quite sure he could still come up with a good pretend whimper, especially since he was genuinely in pain.

Aragorn left his quarters and was immediately besieged by petitioners. He waved them all to silence and called for a servant. "Tell Ambassador Oortowe that I wish to see him for a private conference." The servant bowed and vanished into the crowd. Aragorn had already spotted the Haradric man on the other side of the room, but was not about to wade through the throng to get to him.

The demands for his attention began again as soon as he was done speaking to the servant. Aragorn decided that he really needed to get back control of his time somehow. Perhaps he would ask Faramir what to do about that when the Steward returned from his country estate in Ithilien. He was due back today, in fact, if Aragorn remembered correctly.

The Man of Harad appeared out of the multitude as if out of a bank of fog. "Ah, Ambassador, good." Aragorn made a suppressing hand gesture at the gabbling courtiers, and they fell silent. "I have something to show you. This way."

Aragorn went in first, and when he saw Pippin, he had to quell an urge to run to Pippin and support him. He barely remembered to step aside so that Oortowe could enter, and get a good view.

Pippin was leaning heavily against the edge of the wooden desk, shaking, as if holding himself up with his last strength. The position stretched the skin on his back, and even more of the scabs had cracked open, oozing dark red blood. He could not see Pippin's face, but he could hear sniffling and puppy-like whining.

His healer's instincts screamed inside him to go help the injured. Aragorn made himself stand still. His voice came out surprisingly level when he said, "Ambassador, I trust you are satisfied."

Pippin looked over his shoulder when Aragorn spoke. There were tears on the hobbit's cheeks.

Oortowe did not speak. He could not, because he had his hand pressed to his mouth in a way that implied he was trying not to be sick on the floor. He nodded his head yes, bowed, and backed out of the room.

Pippin nearly giggled at Oortowe's expression, but managed to keep up his woeful countenance for Oortowe's eyes. The strangled laughter came out as a kind of choking sound. This had been quite a good prank. It was too bad Merry hadn't gotten to see Oortowe's face.

The Ambassador collided with someone in the doorway. Whoever it was had a fist up to the doorframe, as if about to knock on the door. The two people sorted themselves out with a sorry (from the new person) and a puff-cheeked bow (from Oortowe, still trying not to lose his lunch), and Oortowe sped off, leaving a man staring white-faced at Pippin.

The expression of queasy horror that had been so amusing on Oortowe was not nearly as funny on Faramir.

Pippin pushed off from the desk and started to turn. Before he got all the way around, Aragorn started to say, "This isn't what it looks—" and Faramir fled, slamming the door. Aragorn took a step toward the door, but stopped. A good huntsman knows better than to chase a startled deer.

"Oh, no," whispered Aragorn. "There goes a month's work, trying to get him to trust me."

"I'll talk to him," Pippin said, all hint of weeping gone from his voice despite the wetness that remained on his face.

"Later," said Aragorn. "First things first. Your wounds have not been cleaned properly." Aragorn gestured to the couch at the side of the room. "Lie down, please, Pippin. I will brew athelas."

Pippin wiped his tears away with his pocket handkerchief and obediently lounged on the lounge, resting the side of his face on the dark blue velvet, regarding Aragorn with weary eyes.

Aragorn got some of the dried herbs from a cupboard, set them next to Pippin on the couch, and then put a pot of water into the hearth, near the fire, to boil. He went into his closet and returned with towels, setting them down on top of the herb pouch. He sighed, sat down in a chair, and stretched his feet out to the flames. It was a Strider-like pose.

"Pippin," Aragorn murmured.

"Yes?"

"If I told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?"

"Yes."

"Just yes? No hesitation, no doubt, no question?"

"Everyone in the Tower Guard would. You're the King."

"I can't stand being the King. I can't stand being closed up in these walls of stone another moment, for all that I lived here for years when I was just Thorongil. Everyone reacts to me as if I were some kind of evil god, too powerful to cross and too insane to reason with. Even you, who ought to know me better than that by now. Except the foreigners, of course. And the ones who act like the evil god's demon toadies. Some of my courtiers are—odd."

"Everyone who knew Denethor sees the Ruler of Gondor through that prism. Denethor ordered his men to kill him. And they did. That's not fanatical loyalty, it's terrified blind obedience. You'd have to have been mad to defy him."

"You defied him."

"I guess that makes me a fair nutjob. As cracked as old Bilbo, at least. Maybe crackier. Now, if only I'd managed to hook out a dragon hoard to go along with my lunacy, I'd be getting somewhere." Pippin's eyes twinkled.

Aragorn smiled. "Gandalf told me that hobbits can endure things that would kill me, and walk away laughing. I thought he was exaggerating. I'm glad to see I was wrong. Your unquenchable good humor is a solace to me. I wish… I wish I could keep you here, or at least that the Shire were just over the next hill, and you could visit often. Somehow I've got to make some friends here in this city before the Fellowship departs. But it's hard to make friends with people who think I'm an evil god."

Pippin chuckled. "Nobody thinks that, truly, Aragorn. Just don't show up invisible some day and nobody will."

Aragorn's smile faded. He got up to check the water, dragged the pot out of the fire with the tongs, breathed on the athelas leaves and began steeping them. The wholesome fragrance filled the air. After letting the water cool a bit, he dipped a towel into the herbal water and started washing Pippin's wounds.

Pippin squeezed his eyes shut, thinking the process would be painful, but to his surprise the warm athelas water eased the pain on contact. He relaxed. This was actually quite pleasant. When Aragorn had tended his hurts after the battle, Pippin had been unconscious from being squished under a dead troll.

"This must have been a handy talent, during your years in the wild."

"I cannot call the power of athelas for myself. Only for other people. I've tried."

"Oh. It's magic then, not just herbcraft."

"I suppose you could call it magic. Hobbits seem to describe a lot of things as magic."

"Mmmm." Pippin felt like he was being dissolved and turned into white light. "If I go smash myself up tomorrow, will you do this again?"

"Tomorrow I will be busy listening to the endless debate on the fine points of barrel taxation, who sits where in the meetings with the Haradrim, and whether the word "is" is defined properly in Gondor's law code. Give a poor King some rest."

Pippin grinned. "Was that a yes? Does healing someone count as rest, compared to all that?"

"Do not get hurt. That is an order."

"Ooh." Pippin's grin got even wider. "Yes milord."

End of Part 4


	5. Chapter 5

Mean What You Say part 5

For a moment Faramir thought he had lost his mind, like his father, and he was hallucinating. He was having a vision of himself, at age ten, being made to stand in position with his hands on that desk while his father beat him. He could see his old Tower Guard uniform, White Tree embroidered argent on sable, dropped on the floor next to the bleeding boy. But his father had never actually whipped him as badly as this child had been. Young Faramir had been blistered, bruised, even pounded so raw that he bled, occasionally, but not like that. That looked more like the kinds of wounds he had seen on the dead bodies of soldiers taken prisoner by orcs, in Ithilien. Men of his command, tortured to death for the sport of the soldiery of Mordor.

Then he looked at the tear-streaked face, looking back at him over the bleeding shoulder. He was not seeing his own ghost. It was Pippin!

A roil of unidentifiable emotion passed through him. He was not sure exactly what he felt: anger? Fear? Pity, for sweet little Pippin? Betrayed. Rock-certainty. He felt betrayed. But that made no sense at all. For a split second, he had a terrible urge to draw his sword and slay the false king, whose golden promises turned to old leaves like fairy-gold.

Panicked at his treasonous thought, Faramir turned and fled. He pulled the door shut behind him with the strength of the terror-stricken, slamming it with a loud bang. He barely noticed the people around him jumping at the noise; he barely noticed the ones who were in his way, and ran down at least one on his way outside.

He emerged in sunlight in the relative emptiness of the courtyard. He allowed the fear inside him to guide his steps, and turned not for the city, but for the little triangle of pavement between the palace wall and the curve of the courtyard rail, and the maintenance door there. It had been Faramir's secret hiding place as a child, the only spot he could reach from the throne room without being visible from the windows high up in the Tower of Ecthelion directly above it. So far as he knew, the new King had never even been up there, but panic and logic were not close companions.

Faramir pulled the door open and shut himself in the darkness inside. He stood just behind the door, breathing hard, and tried to compose himself. "Oh, this is very dignified," he thought at himself with a mental sneer, "the Steward of Gondor hiding from his King in a janitor's closet."

He replayed what had just happened in his mind. What could cute, lovable Pippin have possibly done to merit such extreme chastisement? Even Denethor had never had Pippin flogged for his lapses, finding them amusing rather.

Faramir's instinct had been to protect his friend Pippin; surely that was the only reason for that alarming desire to run Aragorn through. But Pippin had been Aragorn's friend, too, one of his compatriots on the Quest of the Ring. Faramir had once envied the hobbits' easy comradery with the King. If Aragorn could do this to such a friend…

Aragorn had sworn that Faramir would never be beaten again. He had seemed to be shocked at Faramir's treatment at the hands of his father. But he had beaten little Pippin.

Faramir started shaking, as reaction set in. The hot rage was melting out of him, leaving only cold fear. In the silent darkness, he allowed himself a few bitter tears. For lost hope. For the dread of the years to come, that had once seemed so bright and blessed.

He should have known better. "Do not be too enamored of the arts of the gentlemen, Faramir," his father had once said, disapproving of Faramir's preference for books over swords, "no one gentle can rule a great realm." One of the few times Denethor had ever alluded to the fact that the spare can become the heir, especially when the heir is always in the thick of battle.

Then the fear, too, passed through him and emptied out. He composed himself, but could not quite bring himself to open the door and leave the kindly darkness. Again the scene passed before his mind's eye: naked, bleeding, weeping Pippin, back bent over the desk. Aragorn standing off to the side, looking stern. Himself, running away. He had slammed the door. He had slammed the door on the King. An unforgivable breech of etiquette. Was he going to be beaten next?

A stab of fear went through his gut, and Faramir blew out a breath to calm himself. If he was, he was, and there was nothing he could do about it, just like during Denethor's reign. Nothing, that is, except plot treason. That he refused to do. The people of Gondor loved their new King; already they were making songs about him, and about the golden age to come. Let them have their fantasy, Faramir thought. If King Elessar turns out to be a tyrant-- in the mold of Denethor, or even worse-- he was still their King. Rebellion would do nothing but weaken Gondor. The new King had helped to defeat The Enemy, and Minas Tirith's long vigilance was rewarded at last. Let Gondor not falter now, and end like Arnor, broken up into competing states, easy prey for raiders, orcs, and foreign enemies. Gondor could become like the Northern Realm, nothing left but tumbled stones, peasant huts, and dour Rangers. No. Not for him would Gondor fall. The banner of the Stewards would never be raised against the banner of the Kings.

Faramir would give his life for Gondor. If he occasionally had to give a little of the skin off his back, so be it. He opened the door and walked out into the light.

End of Part 5


	6. Chapter 6

Mean What You Say 6

Merry was back in normal hobbit clothes. He had washed the spattered blood out of the front of his Rohan gear, and the dirt off of the back, and hung the garments up to dry in the little stone porch these city Men called a garden. He had washed his face and hands before leaving the well by the abandoned house with Pippin this morning. He let out a sigh of relief as he finished buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt. He had not wanted to be covered in blood spray when Frodo and Sam came back to the hobbit guesthouse from wherever they had gone. They would have demanded explanations.

When he and Pippin had come back here, the first order of business, of course, had been lunch. But Merry had started the laundry as soon as Pippin went off to the palace. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the return of the other hobbits. Wait, and think. Merry did not really want to be alone with his thoughts. He kept thinking about his father, and the Show. So far he had come up with a dozen better ways he could have dealt with it, if he had known then what he knew now. If he had been as smart—and as courageous-- as everyone seemed to think he was.

Everyone around here, members of the Fellowship and strangers alike, gave him credit for helping to kill the Witch-King, the Lord of the Nazgul. Merry had actually heard himself mentioned in a song, and the brave warrior in the bard's rendition was a very different person indeed. All Merry had done was stab somebody from the back. In the back of the knee, in fact. He had never had to face his opponent. He had never really faced anybody, or anything.

Pippin, of all people, had turned out to be the brave one. Who would have guessed the lad who used to follow his older cousin around like a duckling, who would do anything Merry said, from 'go steal that pie' to 'strip and lie down for me', would grow up to lead a palace coup against the Lord of Minas Tirith. With Gandalf for his chief follower.

Merry shifted uncomfortably. He wondered how Pippin was doing, and if he had found out what Aragorn's orders this morning had been all about. He was just getting up to get some pipe-weed to keep him company, when Pippin returned. Merry bounced to his feet. "Pippin! Are you alright? What's the news? Are you hungry?"

Pippin grinned. "I'm always hungry."

Merry poured tea and arranged pastries on plates for the two of them. Merry sat down, but Pippin eyed the chair with distaste and remained standing. "So did you find out what that was about, then?"

"Some kind of complicated political thing," Pippin said, making a whooshing-over-my-head gesture. "I gather it was a miscommunication, although Aragorn was too polite to tell me so, after all the trouble you and I went to."

Merry's face drained. "You mean, he—"

"Had actually intended to fake up some imitation marks. Oh, but it was worth it, Merry! You should have seen Oortowe's face!" Pippin snickered.

"Who?"

"This was all about pulling a prank on this foreign fellow. He nearly tossed his cookies right there in Aragorn's study!"

"A prank?!"

"Oh Merry, it was the best prank I've helped pull all year. I wish you could have seen it! I nearly laughed out loud, but that would have spoiled the effect, and I managed to choke it off."

"Aragorn plays pranks?"

"Well, there was some kind of elaborate game going on, between Gondor and Harad I guess, and the prize is no doubt deadly serious, but basically, yes. This kind of prank scores points in the game."

Merry shook his head. "That sounds strange."

"Strange but fun." Then Pippin's smile faded. "But then Faramir stumbled into the middle of it. He took off like a greyhound, and I can't find him. I went to his apartments, but I don't know if he was in there and just not answering, or if he's off someplace where I didn't think to look, but in any case he'll go back there eventually. I want to be waiting for him when he does. But I need your help, Merry. All the ground floor windows face onto the drop over the city wall."

"Pip, I'm no second-story lad. You're by far the more accomplished thief."

"True, but I'd never get far without my lookout. This is not like breaking into Sandyman's Mill, Merry. If I get caught trying to sneak in the window of the city's Lord Steward, I'll need an official pardon from the King just to keep my life. And that won't help if somebody's already shot me."

"No way, Pippin. If it's that dangerous, you can just wait for Faramir outside like his own Men would. I've already let you talk me into one bad idea today, that proved completely unnecessary. I'm not going to let you risk your life."

"But Merry—"

"That's final. I'll tie you to a chair if I have to."

Pippin winced. "Oh, not sitting down, please."

"Alright then, I'll tie you to your bed, would that make you happy?"

Pippin giggled. "Very happy, if you're in it with me."

Merry closed his eyes for a moment and sighed in irritation. When he opened them again, he said, "That's NOT what I meant. And you know it."

Pippin winked. "Still, a pretty picture." Then his expression became serious again. "But Faramir. He doesn't know what's going on, and I have to find him and let him in on the joke before he does something rash."

"I'll come with you, but I'm not helping you burgle his house."

"You're no fun anymore, Merry." But Pippin said it with a smirk.

End of Part 6


	7. Chapter 7

Mean What You Say 7

Faramir spent the rest of the day, after emerging from his hiding place, attending to what duties there were, that he could perform without entering the palace. There was no shortage of them, after spending a week in Ithilien, where he had been making the arrangements for the construction of the new village and his great house within, re-ordering the Rangers of Ithilien into his personal guard, and so forth.

Now he was mostly seeing to the routine aspects of the running of Minas Tirith, if anything about the recovery from the War of the Ring and the re-establishment of the monarchy could be said to be routine. But eventually he ran out of pressing work. Work that could be done without consulting the King or some member of his court, that is; Aragorn had inherited his courtiers, like his rooms and furnishings, from Denethor, and many of them held near-absolute power in the little fiefdoms they had carved for themselves, in various aspects of the government of the city and the realm. He could get nothing done in the reconstruction of the city without the cooperation of the leader of the Stonemasons' Guild, for example.

Now Faramir was on his way back up to the highest circle of the city. He could have put off speaking to the King for another day, but that would only leave him spending a restless night, tossing and turning and having nightmares. Faramir knew all too well how dread could churn within him until going to battle was a relief. There was no longer any combat available into which to siphon off his anxiety. He had never thought he would miss the war; he loved Minas Tirith, and would not see the city in peril if he could at all prevent it, but he had grown used to channeling all the fear, all the hate, the anger, the jealousy, the sense of personal injustice into his city's defense. And he had not even been aware that he was doing so, until the Enemy was defeated and Faramir suddenly found he had gotten all his childhood wishes—for peace, for the restoration of the glory of Gondor, for the King to return, for Faramir to have time to hold interesting discussions with Mithrandir without having to watch over his shoulder for his father, for elves to walk the beloved streets of the White City, for a beautiful princess to love him, for his father to die like a dog and leave him alone—and it unbalanced him.

He stalked across the courtyard like a man going to his doom. Faramir spared a glance for the White Tree, withered and barren, still being guarded in the Court of the Fountain. The King had returned, but Gondor was not blossoming under his leadership. Faramir shook his head to clear away the fruitless thought.

He entered the throne room, spied the King standing near the foot of the high throne, speaking with Mithrandir, and made his way toward them through the press of courtiers. Faramir dropped to one knee before his King.

"Your Majesty, I apologize for my appalling lapse of manners this morning. I submit myself to—"

Aragorn held up a hand to stop his speech, and Faramir froze, visibly trembling, as if expecting to be clouted about the head right then and there.

"No, Faramir, it was perfectly understandable. That tableau was not meant for your eyes," Aragorn said softly. After a moment, he continued more sharply, "Oh, get up, Faramir."

Faramir rose to his feet. He felt his face heat with a blush; that tone had been a rebuke, and Faramir remembered too late that his King had told him to dispense with the kneeling and ring-kissing. How annoyed was the King with his slow-learning servant? Would there be an additional penalty?

Aragorn moved close and whispered, "Did Pippin speak with you?"

"No, my lord," Faramir replied, cautiously.

"He went to look for you, to explain… I need to speak with you in private, my good Steward."

Faramir's gaze drifted to the door behind the throne, which gave into the study, and that desk. He blanched, and swallowed hard.

Aragorn followed his look. "Is there someplace else we could go? Out of earshot?"

"There is the Tower of Ecthelion, my lord." Faramir gestured toward the entrance, mid way back behind the columns.

"Good. Let us go there."

Faramir and Aragorn passed between rustling fabrics and the buzz of rumor, then between stone statuary, and finally through the door and up the steep stair. They emerged in the round room which was the highest point in Minas Tirith. The windows looked onto blue sky. There were scrolls scattered everywhere, and a small table, set up like an altar with a cloth of gold over it, in the center of the room. There was a circular clean spot in the dust of the wrinkled altar cloth where something had been removed, and a carved chair overturned beside it.

"The Palantir must have rested there," said Aragorn. "So this was Denethor's private sanctum. I've never been up here. Neither, obviously, has the cleaning woman."

Faramir did not acknowledge Aragorn's attempt to lighten the mood. He found his own fear damped down in response to the awe of finally seeing this room. There was a gravity about this place, a thick, syrupy sense of old menace that somehow felt piteous rather than frightening. "This was the place where my father lost his reason."

"I should not have brought you here," Aragorn said. "Not now, at least, when I was trying to find a place to talk where his specter would not overshadow our converse. This whole city is full of the ghost of Lord Denethor. I cannot go anywhere that does not vibrate to his footsteps. Except the throne, and I hate that thing."

Faramir turned, startled. "You hate your throne?"

"I cannot hold a decent conversation with anybody up there. I can either address the whole room or nobody at all."

"I think that's the idea, my lord," Faramir said, diverted. "You are supposed to make pronouncements from on high."

A corner of Aragorn's mouth quirked up, briefly. "I am not used to my words having this terrible weight. Strider the Ranger could say anything he wanted to the trees and the stones. Usually there was no one around for a hundred leagues. And when I did have companions on my travels, even the ones who knew my true identity usually responded to me as a friend rather than a liege-lord. Indeed, only to other Rangers was I a liege-lord. The sons of Elrond kowtow to no Man, and Gandalf is possibly the least subservient being in Middle Earth."

Faramir had to agree with that assessment of Mithrandir. He found himself strangely moved by being made privy to his King's confidential thoughts. His fear was slipping away.

Aragorn said softly, "That regrettable scene you happened upon this morning was the result of an error on my part. Ill-considered words, which I did not expect to have consequences. I did not intend Pippin to be beaten. Once it had already happened, I decided to take advantage of it to impress Ambassador Oortowe, for whose ears my careless words had been intended. I have done my best to ease Pippin's pain and treat his injuries to prevent infection. I am sorry you had to see the tableau we staged. I realize what a personal nightmare it must have been for you."

Faramir looked down. "My lord…" he trailed off. He could not decide what to say.

"Faramir," Aragorn continued, a little louder and more urgently, "I need someone to be a check on me, when I act unwisely. Gandalf tries, but his task is over and he is readying himself to depart these shores. This is a matter for Men. I know you fear me, Faramir. But I also know you have a far better understanding of exactly what kind of power I wield as the ruler of Gondor than I do. You have spent your life observing your father and how people reacted to him, while I avoided Minas Tirith like the plague during his entire reign, for fear he might recognize me as Thorongil, and realize what my lack of aging must mean. You have the ideal background to become my closest advisor as well as my Steward. I want your help, Faramir. You know far better than I, how my words and actions will be interpreted by the people around me. I never want what happened today to happen again, for my accustomed manner of dealing with people as if I were still Strider the Ranger to bring unintended harm to my friends. Or my people, or my realm, or Middle-Earth. Can you do this?"

"I can but try, my lord." It came out querulous, and his nostrils flared as he suppressed a momentary pang. Faramir took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Yes."

Aragorn smiled. "Good. Now there are a few minor things on which I could use your advice, before we rejoin the thundering horde in the throne room."

"I shall endeavor to advise you well, my lord."

End of Part 7


	8. Chapter 8

Mean What You Say 8

"This is the same street we walked down this morning," Pippin commented quietly.

"Pippin, are you alright, really?"

"I'm fine, Merry. Aragorn gave me the athelas treatment. It barely twinges when I move, now, that's it."

"And, are you alright, in, um… I don't know about you, Pippin, but I can't stop thinking about the Show. I ignored it for so long. We didn't speak of it, it was almost like a bad dream, that fades when we've awoken. I literally hadn't thought of it in years."

"Neither had I."

There was a lull in the conversation, as they passed a group of Men clattering up the stone street with a handcart.

"When we go home, I'm going to wring my father's neck."

"Oh, now, Merry, no hobbit has ever killed another on purpose. We've gotten used to the ways of war out here on our journey, and I do hope we'll both keep the courage we've found, but—"

"Sure they have."

"Sure who have what?" Pippin asked.

"A hobbit has so strangled another hobbit."

"You mean Gollum?! Merry, you don't want to be like him, surely!"

Merry sighed. "I guess not." They turned the corner under the gate. "I was older, I should have protected you."

"You did. Mostly."

"Why didn't we tell anyone? Not many people in the Shire could gainsay the will of the Master of Buckland, but the Thain is one of them. We should have gone to your father. Why didn't we ever think of it?"

"I did think of it, Merry. And you know what I thought of, when I thought of it? The Sackville-Bagginses."

"What? What do they have to do with this?"

"I knew what feud meant, Merry."

"Oh. Alright, so it might have started a feud, if your father had tried to shield me from mine, but it would have been better for us, anyway."

"No, Merry. I didn't think my father would start one over you. He would have protected me, certainly. But I was afraid he'd protect me by not letting me see you anymore."

Merry stood still, and stopped Pippin with a hand on his arm. "Pippin."

"No, it wasn't all just for you," Pippin said. "I was afraid he'd think the only way to keep me from sneaking off to Buckland to play with you would be to lock me in the Great Smials and not let me outside 'til my coming of age. In which case, I'd still be there right now."

Merry grinned. "Think of that. All the things you'd have missed out on: being pursued by black horsemen, sleeping in the same clothes for a year, wolves, snow, mosquitoes, getting a guided tour of an orc battalion, not to mention lifting your very rarest steal, only seven ever made, wasn't it?"

"Merry." Pippin shoved him, and not playfully. The palantir was not a subject about which Pippin could jest. Even hobbit good humor had its limits.

"Sorry."

Pippin started off down the street again, and Merry caught up and walked alongside him. "There's Faramir's townhouse. There aren't any lights in the windows. Maybe he's not home yet." Pippin knocked on the door and shouted, but no one answered. Pippin looked up at the second floor window. "Bet I could scale that wall."

Merry grabbed the tail of Pippin's uniform tunic and held on with both hands. "You try it, and I'll rip your favorite shirt."

Pippin laughed. "Oi! What a terrible threat! I surrender."

"Shall we smoke while we wait?" Merry asked, letting Pippin go.

"A most excellent idea. What better way for knights of Gondor and Rohan to pass the time, than to enjoy the spoils of our most peculiar victory. No one at home will believe it, the woods coming to battle."

Merry's expression turned serious as he packed his pipe and handed the weed to Pippin. "I expect no one at home will believe most of what we could tell them, or understand it even if they did believe it. It'll be just another shivery tale, like Bilbo and the dragon. I wonder now, just how funny that really was at the time."

"We'll have to ask him," said Pippin. "And now that I've fought a few trolls myself, that story of his about the trolls doesn't seem such a charming adventure, either."

"Adventure," snorted Merry. "Adventure is mostly being cold and hungry a lot."

"In between the parts where I just try not to wet myself," said Pippin. "Ah! There's Faramir!" Pippin ran to him and took his hand. "Faramir, thank goodness I found you! Let us in, I have to tell you about this morning, it wasn't what it looked like."

"I have heard that already," replied Faramir, pulling his hand out of Pippin's so he could unlock his door. "But I would very much like to hear your version, to see how significantly it differs from his majesty's perspective." Faramir gestured the hobbits inside. "Please, sit."

Merry flopped into an overstuffed chair much too big for a hobbit, but Pippin gingerly lay on his side across an ottoman, propping his head up on his hand. "Have you got anything to eat in here?" Pippin asked.

"I do indeed, and to drink also." In a minute Faramir returned with food for his guests, built up the fire against the chill of the spring evening, and sat on a divan. "Now, let us have the round tale."

Pippin began…

The End.


End file.
